


The Soul Never Thinks

by Minxie



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Fusion: QAF, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minxie/pseuds/Minxie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one ever said Brian Kinney had tact. Turns out, that is just what Tommy needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Soul Never Thinks

**Author's Note:**

> **Prereaders:** vlredreign, thraceadams, silentdescant, and aislinn  
>  **Warnings:** Post-tour, post-series QAF fusion (Brian/Justin, Adam/Tommy), Fusion Characters (Brian, Justin, Cynthia). This is completely an Adam/Tommy fic, there is not even a hint of partner swap.  
>  **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction using names and faces associated with actual trufax people. I do not know these people in any way, shape, or form outside of what they show the public. Which, IMO, is a very sucky thing. Just sayin'.  
>  **AN:** Written for _masnds2_ , runner-up bidder in [my auction for charity: water.](http://community.livejournal.com/hooplamagnet/118022.html?thread=62563078#t62563078) Her request was for a QAF fusion that included Tommy making some realizations along the way, emphasis on Tommy's thinking. Thank you, _masnds2_ , for supporting a great cause! Hope it lives up to what you were wanting, bb! ♥

Brian Kinney is a learning experience. One that Tommy isn't sure he can seriously appreciate yet.

He respects him. After three days spent ass deep in a MAC commercial shoot, watching Brian go head-to-head with cameramen and photographers, with the lighting people and the make-up artists? Yeah, Tommy respects him, can't help but respect him. The dude has _balls_.

But when the man turns all of that attention from work onto Tommy, in the middle of a dance club of all places, Tommy isn't sure he appreciates it.

"How long have you two been fucking?"

The question catches Tommy off guard, has him spluttering a string of consonants and choking on a mouthful of Jack. The man is an ass of monumental proportions with no hint of tact at all. "We're not involved with each other outside of being friends."

Tommy watches Brian warily. The gleam in his eyes is one that he's seen plenty over the past three days. It has never led to anything good. His wariness is proven wise as soon as Brain open his mouth again.

"Didn't say involved," Brian drawls around a swallow of beer, "said, fucking. How long have you two been fucking?"

"We haven't," Tommy grinds out. "We're friends."

"Uh huh." Brian is obviously unconvinced. He's giving him the same look that Monte and his mom and Leila, right along with a shit ton of other people, give him all the time. Apparently no one believes that they're just friends.

Justin reaches across Tommy and slaps Brian gently on the arm. "Leave him alone, Brian," he says with a grin. "Not everyone has your world view on relationships."

Tommy looks back and forth between the two of them. How was this even his life? Standing in the middle of a gay club in Pittsburgh, freaking ass _Pittsburgh_ , defending himself against people he's known less than a week. He can see why Adam likes them, though. Why he came back from his first advertising meeting bubbling over about Brian Kinney. They're like two peas in a pod with their don't give a fuck attitude. Tommy just wishes Brian's was focused on someone else right now. "There is no relationship," he says again, feeling like an old broken record, scratched and left to repeat that one single line over and over and fucking over. "We're friends."

"With a shit load of sexual tension. You should just get it over with. Let him fuck you and see what there is after that." Brian puts his beer down and beckons Justin with a finger. "Come on, Sunshine. I have a project for you."

They disappear around the end of the bar and into the backroom, Brian's hand wrapped around the back of Justin's neck in a grip so familiar Tommy's neck tingles. And, Jesus, fuck, wasn't _that_ , when he'd stumbled into the backroom instead of the men's room, an eye-opening experience. He'd damn well learned more in the fifteen minutes his feet had been glued to the floor than he had watching a tour's worth of gay porn vids.

Shaking his head, Tommy tips his glass to his lips and takes another burning gulp of Jack, hopes the bite of the liquor will push Brian’s comments out of his head. Unfortunately it doesn't work. He's still hearing the echo of _Let him fuck you…_ when Adam comes up behind him and slips an arm around his waist. "You doing okay, Tommy Joe?"

"Brian thinks we're sleeping together." And, okay, not really what he'd meant to say, but, what the fuck, it's out there now.

"Huh?" Adam pulls away from Tommy and then steps in front of him, a finger pressing against Tommy's chin, forcing his head back far enough they're staring into each other’s eyes. "What?"

"Well," Tommy's glad for the darkness of Babylon as a blush steals over his cheeks, "he said fucking each other, but, yeah."

Adam tilts Tommy's head back a little more. "Are you blushing?"

So much for the cover of darkness. "Adam, please."

Adam cants his head to the left. "Does it bother you? I mean, he's not the first one and I thought that you were okay with…" Adam flails his hand between them " …us."

Tommy knows exactly what Adam is talking about. They kiss (onstage and off), they cuddle (anywhere and everywhere), they do shit together (like tattoos and concerts and, recently, red carpet events), and they have sleepovers (flake out in front of the television, eating every junk food known to man, pass out in bed together _sleepovers_ ). And they both get laid somewhere else. It works for them.

At least, he's thought it worked for them.

He doesn't know why Brian's comment threw him for a loop. Fuck knows Adam's right. He's, _they've_ , heard it too many times to count. Maybe not as blunt as Brian said it; but still, heard it before all the same. But there is no denying Brian totally got to him. Just, like, yanked the carpet out from under him and sat him on his ass easy as you please _got to him_.

"I was, I am," Tommy murmurs, splaying his hand wide on Adam's stomach, leaning in 'til their foreheads touch. "He just got to me."

"Brian can do that like nobody else," Adam replies, his finger drifting away from Tommy's chin to flitter over the sharp edge of Tommy's jaw. Then, when some half-dressed, drunk off his ass dude knocks into Adam, the moment breaks. Tommy kinda wants to smack the douche. "Come on, dance with me."

Tommy snorts, shaking his head. That is something else that Adam does with others. Because Tommy does _not_ dance, especially not when he is anything near sober. "Nowhere near drunk enough for that, man."

Adam laughs, loud and bright and happy. "You gonna be okay here a little longer then?"

"He'll be fine." Brian's voice invades their conversation two seconds before he appears, reclaiming his place at the bar right next to Tommy. "Justin, go show off with Adam."

They both have that 'I've had an orgasm and I'm happy with it' relaxed, boneless look. Tommy's kinda jealous about that. Brian should at least be half as wound as he is.

"Play nice," Justin admonishes, brushing a kiss across Brian's lips before grabbing Adam's wrist and disappearing into the throng of sweaty men.

Tommy caves under the heavy weight of Brian's stare before the first song ends, glancing away from Adam's and Justin's bump and grind floor show and focusing on the way too smug look in Brian's eyes. "What?"

"Why aren't you fucking him?"

He's seriously going to have to stop drinking around the man. He's gonna end up choking to death otherwise.

Tommy doesn't appreciate that either.

* * *

One look at his Twitter feed and Tommy is wondering what a guy has to do to get an Irish coffee around this place. Cynthia has been a damn goldmine of meeting everyone's needs. He's tempted – like, standing up and on his way to her desk, _tempted_ – to see if she can point him in the right direction.

Because he really needs a goddamn drink of some sort.

He's two steps into his quest and then Adam is right there, all up in his grill with concern flashing in his eyes and a loose grip on Tommy's wrist. "Tommy? Baby?"

Tommy shakes his head slowly. He can't do this right now. "I just, I'm gonna… look, just give me a few minutes, okay?"

Adam's not budging an inch. His hand tightens on Tommy's arm, his eyes making quick darting, cataloging, looks over Tommy's face. "You're okay?"

He bites back a burst of hysterical laughter. He is nowhere near okay. Not with Brian's words echoing in his head and the effing picture still all bright and in living color on his phone. Not with the proof staring him in the face right now with distress in his eyes and worry weighting his voice.

"I will be," Tommy mutters. Silently he tacks on _in about a hundred fucking years_. "Let me go, please."

That was totally a whine. He doesn't really give a damn though because it breaks Adam's grip better than snatching his arm away ever could.

"I just need a minute. Go," Tommy flaps a nervous hand at Adam, "look at pictures or what the fuck ever we're supposed to be doing, yeah?"

"You'll come get me if you need me?"

A snort of frantic laughter squeaks out. "Like I have another option. We're in _Pittsburgh_ , Adam. Who the fuck else would I call?"

Tommy totally doesn't tell Adam that he'd probably call him first no matter where they were. That even if Mike was chilling in the next room, it's Adam that Tommy gets his comfort from now. That is way too damn telling. Just like the pic still waiting for him on his phone.

"Yeah, well," hurt flashes in Adam's eyes. "I'm just worried about you."

Contrite, because he really didn't mean to upset Adam, he just needs to get away, Tommy whispers. "I'll be fine, babyboy. You just go look at how gorgeous you are, okay?"

And, please, holy fucking hell, please don't look at Twitter.

Tommy doesn't say that out loud either. Because the first thing Adam would do is pull that shit up and then he'd _know_. The air between them is already strained and awkward enough.

He makes a break for it while Adam has his grabby hands to himself, pushes right out the front door and into the bright morning sun without a single look back. The heavy crush on his chest doesn't let up at fucking all.

* * *

Tommy stumbles along the sidewalk, squinting into the sun and cursing the fact that his sunglasses are still sitting on the low table in Brian's office. This duck and run wasn't too well thought out. Typical. He never plans ahead properly. Even when he has time.

He sighs when the diner comes into view, remembering it from their first night in town when he conned Adam into a greasy burger for dinner. At least he's in familiar surroundings. That is totally a bonus for Brian turning a bathhouse right in the middle of Pittsburgh's gay mecca – a _bathhouse_ , for fuck's sake – into an ad agency.

Tommy drops down on a hard wooden bench and, steeling himself, thumbs his phone out of hibernation. And there it is, staring him right in the face. A very clear _moment_ from the night before. Their foreheads are touching and Adam's hand is shadowing his throat, one finger curled and pressing beneath Tommy's chin, and Tommy's hand is wide, fingers spread against the black of Adam's tee, and clutching at Adam's shirt, pulling the fabric and scuttling the v-neck collar to the left.

They both look happy, easy and relaxed, positively content just being in each other's orbit.

Tommy wants to shoot the fucker that took the picture. There's too much rattling in his head right now and this, this goddamn picture that is plastered all over his twit feed, is like a cold slap to the face.

There is no easy out here. No way to explain it away. He can't claim performance high, or lay it off on an introspective birthday kinda thing. He can't even honestly claim that he was drunk. There's no getting around exactly what it is. At least not with himself.

Because it's them. Pure and unadulterated _them_. In the middle of a moment that doesn't include a hint of their performance personas. They weren't being Adam Fucking Lambert and his bassist, Tommy Joe Ratliff. They were being just them, Adam and Tommy. And they were having a moment.

And, just to add to it, it is proof that no matter how annoying Brain Kinney is, he is one perceptive bastard who was most certainly not talking out the side of his ass last night.

More’s the fucking pity.

Because this is going to make the man unbearable and they're slated to be in Pittsburgh for at least four more days. Tommy's got too much whizzing around in his head to have Brian on his case again. He just can't. His mouth will override his brain and then there is no telling what the fuck will come tumbling out.

Closing his eyes, Tommy tries to figure out what the actual hell he's supposed to do now, how he can avoid the disaster that is lurking just around the corner. His deny, deny, deny option has been totally obliterated by a camera phone.

Goddammit.

* * *

The scent of coffee makes him open his eyes. He sees the coffee cup first – because, dude, hard to miss something hot and steaming stuffed right under your nose – and then follows it back to find Justin, all blond hair and blue eyes, a huge grin splitting his face.

He looks young and innocent. Tommy has no idea how Justin manages _innocent_ after being around Brian for any length of time. He wraps his hands around the take-out cup and quirks his lips. He hopes it's more grin than grimace. "Thanks."

"I asked Adam how you took it, so if it isn't right, blame him." Justin takes the spot next to Tommy on the bench.

Tommy takes a careful sip. "It's perfect, thanks."

They spend an easy five minutes being quiet. Drinking coffee and letting the world go by. Then Justin opens his mouth and the floor drops from beneath Tommy. Again.

"So, you kind of lit out of there in a hurry." Then, with an, "Oh, here," he hands Tommy his sunglasses.

Sliding the glasses into place, Tommy cuts his eyes to his phone, makes sure the screen is dark and that damn picture isn't there for all – Justin – to see. "Needed some space to think. And, thanks. Sun's fucking too bright this morning."

"Did Brian say something to you? I told him to leave you alone about Adam." Justin sounds sincere, looks it when Tommy chances a glance.

"It wasn't Brian." Not completely anyway, and Tommy has the feeling Justin would go balls to the wall with Brian if he said that Brian caused the upheaval. He really doesn't want this blowing up into more than it already is. "Just some shit floating around in cyberspace."

"You're sure? Because I know Brian, and while he usually doesn't set out to be a dick, he does happen to be really good at it."

Tommy laughs at that, at the exasperated tone in Justin's voice. "Sounds like he does it a lot."

"Less than he used to, but," Justin's lips curl into a fond grin, "yeah. I've cleaned up a fair share of his messes."

"Did they send you after me?"

"It was me or Adam." Justin reaches out and gently grabs Tommy's wrist, overlays exactly where Adam had grabbed him earlier. Stupidly, all Tommy can think is Adam's hands are bigger, the span of his fingers more. The thought sends heat zinging along Tommy's spine, settling like a hot spring in his gut and his groin. He shakes his head, gets back to paying attention, when Justin adds, "I thought that maybe a friendly, but completely uninvolved, face would be better."

Snorting, Tommy shakes his head again, this time in amusement. "You just wanted to know if you had to rescue Brian from himself."

"Well," a blush creeps over Justin's cheeks, "there's that too."

That makes Tommy laugh, breaks the last of the tight ball of tension sitting in his gut. "It wasn't Brian. Someone posted a pic from last night, it's all over the web."

"Oh, shit." Justin squints his eyes and frowns. "How bad? I mean, anything like that would drive me crazy, but, I'm guessing you're used to some of it by now."

"We are. And it's not really _bad_." On a spur of the moment thought, Tommy pulls the pic up and passes the phone to Justin. "It's just very…"

"Raw," Justin murmurs, looking at the pic with a critical eye. "You're both very open. Exposed."

Tommy sees the artist in Justin coming to the forefront, assessing the picture in a way that makes him worry. If _he_ can see everything that is unsaid in the snapshot, then someone experienced in finding the emotion will definitely see it. Suddenly giving Justin his phone seems like a very bad freaking idea.

"Look, tell me to fuck off if you want to, but," Justin hands the phone back to Tommy, his eyes lingering on the screen for a few more seconds, "why haven't you two hooked up?"

There's a laundry list of answers to that question. "Where do you want me to start?"

Justin raises a brow. A look Tommy's sure Justin ripped off from Brian. "Your reasons, are any of them good enough to not at least try?"

Tommy wants to say yes. Wants to growl that trying is so not worth it. Because if it blows up, it'll take everything. He'd lose Adam and, by default, his job and this new group of friends. It'll shatter everything his life has been for more than the past year. Looking at Justin, he buries all of that back down with a grunt. "They might be."

Shaking his head, Justin stands and stretches, his back cracking and popping with the deep arch. "It only takes a second for everything to change," he says. "Trust me, Tommy. A split second. Then you'd be stuck with a head full of what-ifs and no chance at finding out."

That doesn't sound like much more than what he has right now. What if he hadn't auditioned, what if Adam hadn't kissed him, what if Adam hadn't announced his straight to all and sundry, what if, what if, what if. Except right now, for good or for ill, he also has this one foot in-one foot out thing with Adam. As much as this thing with Adam isn't, it's more than he's willing to risk on a what-if.

A pain spikes in his head. Brainache is just what he needs. It fits in with the rest of this most fucked up day. If it keeps going this well, it should be downright righteous by the time noon rolls around.

Standing up, he drains his coffee and, tossing the cup into the trash, says, "Think Cynthia has some aspirin or something?"

Laughing, Justin says, "I'm sure she has a few hundred bottles of Excedrin. She does work for Brian after all."

* * *

Four Advil and another pot of coffee later, Tommy's headache is easing up. The sandwich Adam sent out for helped. All his mother hen clucking about eating properly, taking care of himself and yadda, yadda, yadda, did not.

It does, however, make everyone back off and give him room. Which, Tommy realizes twenty minutes later, might not have been such a good damn thing. He's spending way too much of his quiet watching and thinking and wondering. And, seriously, fuck Justin Taylor for being a sneaky little bastard that planted just as many ideas in Tommy's head as Brian had.

Tommy sends Justin a withering glare. He was totally set up and played, his defenses shot to hell by the innocent looking cherub with a pretty smile. Sorry fucker.

His glare eases into a frown and then his face blanks completely of emotion, too caught up in watching Brian and Justin just _be_ to give serious time to maintaining his – totally warranted, if you ask him – pissiness.

They're comfortable with each other, giving and taking and melding together without conscious thought. It's apparent in the way that they talk, the half finished sentences and single words, the way they have a whole conversation without saying anything at all. It screams of knowing someone. Of acknowledging fears and dreams and desires.

Justin fills in the gaps, seeing shit that Brian either ignores or is oblivious to. And Brian forces reality on Justin, reigns in his want for everything to be perfect.

Even here, in the middle of an advertising campaign, they're real. Like, as a couple, real.

And if the dopey smiles Justin is prone to giving Brian are anything to go by, they're very real when it comes to sex. Nobody looks that sated all the time unless the fucking is happening in copious amounts of bang on good.

They have it. The ability to be friends and lovers.

Tommy wonders how long it took for them to get there. A week, a month, a year? How long before Justin _knew_ Brian, understood how his mind worked. How long before he could pick apart Brian's defenses and get to the heart of the matter.

His eyes skate over to Adam and his heart clenches, too much thinking and talking and seeing absolute proof for him to push it away like he usually does.

It'd had taken less than a week for Tommy to worm past Adam's facade of happy-go-lucky. A week and he knew when Adam was hiding a hurt or a worry or even a joy. Seven days and he knew when Adam was tempering himself for whatever reason. Knew when he should push and ferret out the information or when he should just give Adam a hug and let the ghosts rest, not call them to life because talking about it would only inflict even more pain.

Within a month it had grown to hugs and snuggles and kisses, both of them seeming to accept that this is what they were supposed to be, to do, with each other.

It's the kissing that Tommy is fucking addicted to.

It's the thing he misses most about being on tour. The daily access to Adam and the myriad of kisses they've shared. The morning brushes of lips, and the curled in front of the teevee, going nowhere making out, and the urgent clash of teeth and tongues that comes with too much pot and too little sleep. The comfort kisses and the release kisses and the 'oh, my fucking god, that guy was a douche' angry kisses.

It's why Tommy is in Pittsburgh now. He could've split after he'd done his bit in the commercial. Could have given Adam a hug goodbye at the airport in New York and doglegged it back across the country, sleeping in his own bed, partying with his friends.

But Adam asked him to stay. And staying meant kissing and snuggling, sleeping beside Adam like he hadn't been able to for months. It meant waking up to the heavy weight of Adam's arm across his stomach and Adam's leg draped over his thigh, pushing Tommy's legs apart and burrowing into the space between them. Staying meant having the hard press of Adam's dick burning into his hip and the smell of Adam's shampoo – some ridiculous vanilla rosemary blend that shouldn't work but does – invading his senses.

Coming to Pittsburgh was more like going home than heading back to California without Adam would ever be.

And, Tommy thinks wryly as his phone buzzes with yet another Twitter alert, it unexpectedly but oh, so very honestly, meant getting your ass handed to you by someone with perfect timing and a top of the line camera phone.

Then Adam is sitting on the couch beside him, running his fingers through the long mess of Tommy's bangs, and all of those thoughts leap away. Because Adam is kissing him, a chaste bussing of lips over Tommy's temple, and asking, "Doing better, babe?"

Tommy nods and leans into the touch, the cup of Adam's hand along the cheek and scalp, wondering what if he asked Adam for more, asked for that final thing that they keep skirting around. What would happen then?

* * *

Dinner is at Brian's loft instead of a restaurant followed by Babylon. Tommy could kiss Brian for suggesting it. Or rather kiss Justin, because he's pretty sure it was the blond that steered their plans away from the public and into a private setting.

With a tiny quirk of his lips, Tommy takes the offered beer and looks around Brian's loft. It's a reflection of everything he's learned Brian Kinney to be: open and sleek, all straight lines and sharp edges, dancing right along the edge of acceptable in most situations. But, like the man, the loft is only that on the surface. You have to look deeper to see more than what is thrown in your face, to notice the subtle that hides the truth.

Like the slatted glass around the center point bedroom. It's all opaque. Giving you a hint of what is there but hiding the main event. And the kitchen. Hard granite and high-end appliances and it's still where Justin and Brian gravitate, making it warm and welcome.

And it's all tempered and made more by the hints of Justin. The colored pillows breaking the starkness of the living room, the heavy afghan draped over a chair. It's Justin that rounds the corners out both here, in the loft, and with the man himself.

Brian should have brought him here first. Bypassed Babylon until after Tommy had seen this. It would have made him take the whole privacy invasion a lot better. Because Brian totally invited Tommy beyond the barrier of the Kinney mask, welcomed into the reality that is simply Brian and Justin.

He just didn't know Brian well enough to understand the true value of the gesture.

* * *

Brian and Tommy, mellow on Beam and Thai take-out, slump down on the couch watching Adam and Justin debate some new band over a bottle of red. Tommy raises his tumbler, takes another mouthful of Beam, and then Brian says, "He saw the picture."

The liquor goes down the wrong pipe, brands a trail of fire into Tommy's lungs. Eyes watering, Tommy glares through a coughing fit. "You do that shit on purpose."

Smirking, Brian shrugs. "Gotta get my fun somewhere and Justin said I couldn't ask any more questions about who you fuck."

Tommy bites back the desire to call Brian a henpecked little bitch. Even if it is damn well true. Fuck knows it would just be inviting the sarcastic asshole to unload on him. Then what started this round of spluttering seeps back into Tommy's head. "He saw it?"

"Yup," Brian nods, taking a small sip of his drink. "When you pulled that runner – and, seriously, are all blonds little drama queens taught how to cut and run at birth? – Adam went straight to his phone."

Totally explains the ridiculous amount of hovering Adam did when Tommy walked back into Kinnetik with Justin and the way he's been watching Tommy all night, trying to be subtle but failing miserably.

"It's a good pic," Brian says. "Wish I had thought to do something like that for the ad."

"What? The ad? Are you serious?"

Eyebrow cocked, Brian says, "I'm always serious about business. It would have been a perfect shot to end on."

"Was he pissed?" Tommy blurts the question out. He could give a shit about Brian or his business or the goddamn MAC ad. "Adam, when he saw it…"

"Save the details, I know what you're talking about," Brian snaps. "Fuck if I know what he was. You want to know, ask him."

Tommy slides further down the sofa. "I can't just ask him."

"Never took you for a coward," Brian snorts, a sound chock full of disappointment. "Of everything I expected from the pretty little blond who wears make-up and frenches another man on stage, this shrinking violet display wasn't one of them. Had higher hopes for you."

"But, what if…" And how much does Tommy hate that little set of words? They seem so innocuous. What if, what if, motherfucking what if.

"Fuck what if," Brian growls. Then, his body relaxing as his gaze lands on Justin, adds, "If Justin had been half as worried about what if at seventeen as you are thirty, we'd never have ended up together."

That takes the wind out of Tommy's sails. Seventeen. Jesus.

"I should talk to Adam."

"Yes," Brian agrees, setting his glass on the coffee table and pushing to an easy stand. "And you should do it somewhere that _isn't_ here. I need to fuck Justin."

* * *

"Brian's pretty cool." Tommy laughs softly when Adam jerks around to stare at him, mouth hanging slightly open and not a single peep coming out. "What? You don't think so?"

"I like Brian perfectly fine," Adam says. "Just didn't think you did. I mean, he's been giving you a hard time since we left New York."

"Yeah, he was all go, no quit business. But now we're in his home, hanging out at his club." Tommy shrugs. "Puts the whole thing into a different context. We're not just working as props for some ad anymore."

"Uh huh." Adam still has a wide-eyed comical look. Like he really just cannot wrap his head around Tommy getting along with Brian.

The silence builds around, grows heavy and uncomfortable. A long way off from their usual easy quiet. Tommy swallows and then closes his eyes. It's time for him to man up, find his fucking balls, and talk to Adam.

"So," he says, "you saw the pic?"

"Brian has a big damn mouth," Adam mutters. Glancing from the road to Tommy and then back to the road, Adam says, "Yeah, saw it."

And then he goes silent again.

Tommy fidgets in his seat, decides that waiting until they're in their hotel room, locked away for the night, is a better time to have this conversation. 'Cause Adam looks pissed. That is something that Tommy needs a little more room than a standard size rental to experience. He's seen Adam flip his shit before, there is no way in hell all of that will fit in this claptrap of a car.

Adam pulls up to valet parking and puts the car in park. "I'll probably be back late…"

"You're not coming up?" Tommy frowns. This was not in any version of the scenarios he'd thought up. "Why?"

"Thought you might want to be alone again."

And, oh. That doesn't sound good at all. "Adam," he sighs. "Please just park the damn car and go up with me. If you," Tommy swallows against the bile creeping high in his throat, the next words painful to even think, much less say. "If you want to go out later, then, whatever."

"Tommy…"

"Adam," Tommy cuts him off in a rush. "Please."

Adam nods and twists the key, shuts the car off completely. When he passes the keys to the valet, he says, "Park it close, I might be going out again before morning."

"You got it, Mr. Lambert," the dude replies, all sorts of happy sparkling in his eyes as he tracks Adam's every movement.

Tommy frowns, then, walking into the lobby and on to the bank of elevators, glares through the windows at the valet until the elevator doors close and block his view. Damn if he wants the competition as close as an elevator ride away.

He ignores the curious look from Adam, bites back the rush of words cresting in his throat, and stabs the button for their floor again. And again. And again. He's so not having this conversation in an elevator. Even if it is the slowest flipping one on the whole damn planet.

"I wasn't running from you," Tommy blurts as soon as they're closed into their room, all snug and cozy with enough tension clogging the air to asphyxiate on.

"Really? Because I clearly remember you hauling ass out of Kinnetik this morning."

"It wasn't away from you," Tommy repeats. "I was… did you really _look_ at that picture?"

"I saw it."

Adam is working the stubborn mule thing to the max but beneath the first layer of rigid self-control Tommy sees a hint of guarded longing. He sighs when he recognizes the possibility, the slight crack in Adam's well-honed facade. "But did you _look_ at it?"

"I don't know what you're on about, but," Adam starts walking towards the door, "I can't do this right now."

"Adam," Tommy snaps, thrusting his phone into Adam's hand. "Look. That is what I was running from. Not you." Tommy waves at the picture on the screen. It's his background image now. Because no matter how much of a sucker-punch it was, he just can't stop looking at it. "I was running from…"

"Ho, shit …" Adam's words fade out, his eyes going soft around the edges as he looks over the picture quickly, than again slower, and then again even slower.

"That," Tommy huffs. "It wasn't you. It was us."

Adam jerks his head back, focuses intently on Tommy. "Because you don't want it?"

"Only because of what it'll cost me if I'm, if that," he pokes at the phone's screen, "if _we're_ wrong." Tommy sucks in a breath and waits. He put it out there and Adam didn't laugh at him, the world didn't tilt sideways. Throwing up is still an option though. That one all depends on what Adam says next.

Looking between the picture and Tommy, Adam asks, "Do you want it?"

"We've already got it," Tommy whispers. "It's right there for everyone to see."

Sighing, Adam moves away from the door, walks across the hotel room and drops to the couch. "We've had it since Cabo, Tommy. We fought there, and then, then when we came home... I don't know what the fuck that was. But we got back to it, where it was easy and right, and we ignored it." He holds up a hand when Tommy starts to protest. "Where it really counts, we ignored it."

Tommy can't argue with that one. They kept it safe, never going where it could hurt them the most.

"I thought you were ignoring it because you didn't want it," Adam whispers. "Didn't want me."

"Oh, fucking fuck, fuck," Tommy growls. "Fuck no." He toes off his shoes and stomps his way over to the couch, throwing a leg over Adam's thighs to straddle his lap. "I thought… _fuck_ , I thought we both were playing it safe, weren't pushing shit." He buries his face against Adam's neck and, his breath slicking Adam's skin with sweat, mutters, "I didn't know you were waiting on me."

Tommy's phone clatters against the table and then, with a groan, Adam wraps his arms around Tommy and snugs him up flush, chest to chest. "I thought you were dealing with the whole sexual identity thing."

Snorting, Tommy shakes his head. "Not so much," he mumbles. "Kinda did that with Zach a couple years after graduation."

"Zach? That guy you jam with sometimes?"

Tommy nods, his nose rubbing over Adam's collarbone. "Yeah."

Adam pushes Tommy back away from his body, out of the tight cocoon of his arms. "Tell me it's just been jamming, Tommy Joe."

"Just jamming." A hot thrill races through Tommy. Jealous. Adam is jealous. Over nothing. But still, jealous. "No one, not since that thing after Cabo." Not since that time when he tried hooking back up with Delmy and Adam nailed every piece of ass in sight. Nothing more than a few heated kisses, a blow job when he was drunk off his ass in New York, not since then, when he realized he had to figure out where the fuck his head was at.

"Oh, thank fuck," Adam sighs. "Me neither, you know. Nothing more than some kissing and even then…"

Tommy's lips twitch. "Those are the nights you went straight to the bathroom and brushed your teeth, right?"

"Shut up." There's no heat to the command. "Yeah, 'cause, god, I felt like an ass. Out there feeling guys up while I thought you were alone and going through the whole what the actual fuck gay freak out."

"More like telling myself that your way was best. To take all that we did have and not bitch for more."

"We're idiots," Adam moans, head dropping to the back of the couch, eyes squeezing shut.

"Only if we keep fucking it up now." Tommy has no intention of that happening. He leans in and brushes his lips across Adam's jaw. "You plan on fucking it up?"

"Tommy." It's a breathy plea. One Tommy answers with another slow drag of lips against skin. "We need to talk."

"Did enough of that. We have plenty of time to talk more. Later." It's time for kisses. Brand new kisses. Kisses that are full of thank fuck we finally got our heads outta our asses. He's kinda looking forward to what comes after the kisses too. "Come on, kiss me."

"Just kiss?"

"I dunno." He fights the grin wanting to curl his lips, mischief replacing the worry that had been eating at him all day. "Will you respect me in the morning?"

With a startled laugh, Adam drags a hand down Tommy's back. "Pretty sure I will. If you puking on my shoes in Peoria didn't do it, don't think stripping down with you now will."

"Ass," Tommy mumbles, too intent on the promise of kissing to take much offense. "Not like you haven't heaved on me a couple of times too."

Adam chuckles and tightens his grip. "It must be..."

Tommy smiles and blushes and whispers, "Must be."

He leaves the love off, is glad that Adam did too. It's too soon, too new to say it. Even if it is there for everyone to see.

"You gonna ever get around to kis..."

Tommy's words are cut off by the hard press of Adam's lips, by his tongue skating along the edge of Tommy's lips and dipping into Tommy's mouth.

And, ho, shit, hell _yes_ , this kiss is already ten times _more_ than any of their others. Even that ridiculous cock-hardening madness that was Amsterdam.

* * *

Tommy wakes up with his lips swollen, red and chapped and hurting, and an echo of an ache in his balls, a physical reminder that they fell asleep curled around each other, both of them hard and wanting.

And still all they did last night was kiss. Sliding together until their worn boxers bunched and chafed, the fronts damp with the sticky ooze of precome, their hands roving and touching and learning. With the boundary of just friends gone, Tommy thinks it'll take a lifetime to truly learn Adam.

He's totally up to that challenge.

He looks over and finds Adam watching him, eyes shuttered against emotion and his body held tight, leaking apprehension. "Hey."

"Hey," Adam responds, sounding shy in Tommy's ears. "Sleep well?"

"'Mmm," Tommy hums. Slept like he hasn't in years. "You?"

"Yeah." Adam relaxes, the weird shit holding him stiff finally bleeding out. Feeling the barrier fall, Tommy scoots closer.

"So, since today is like the one day we have nothing we have to do, wanna play tourist?" Tommy looks up through the tangled knot of his bangs. "Then maybe hit Babylon tonight? I'm sure Brian and Justin will meet..."

Tommy's words blank out when Adam smiles, all happy and crazy and so damn bright Tommy thinks about reaching for his sunglasses. He wants to tell Adam it's too early for that, to be so fucking good with life that it just bursts out of every pore until people have to look away or go blind. Except now that Tommy is basking in it, there is no way he's going to do something to make it go away.

"Are you asking me on date, Tommy Joe?"

Tommy looks down, blushing. He's so damn busted. And that sucks because he was seriously trying to do that shit on the sly, get a little piece of their normal, of shit, like dinner and a movie in there, without Adam noticing. "Um, yeah." And fuck, he's embarrassed. "I mean, if you want to."

"I want." Adam jumps out of the bed and, going through his suitcase, asks, "Too soon to drag you into the shower with me?"

It's really not. They have seen each other naked before. But it kinda is. Because Tommy so doesn't want their first time of more to be in a damn hotel bathroom, even if it is a posh damn hotel room. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all, baby," Adam murmurs, coming back to the bed and pressing his lips against Tommy's forehead before disappearing into the bathroom. "Want to order up some breakfast?"

"Would rather go to that diner, see that wacked-out redhead again," Tommy calls back.

"Your eating habits are atrocious..." The rest of Adam's morning bitch is drowned out beneath the shower head.

It's okay, though. Tommy's heard this particular rant enough to know it by heart. It still makes him grin.

* * *

"Still up for Babylon?"

Tommy raises his head from the back of the sofa and checks Adam out. The tight jeans, the tighter shirt. A hint of liner around his eyes and his fingers decorated with rings. Tommy sure as fuck isn't letting him go out looking like that by himself. "Yeah, man. Just let me wash the zoo off, yeah?"

How they ended up at the zoo, Tommy has no idea. But watching Adam play with the under twelve set in the petting zoo was worth the smell of the animals. He's relaxed now, moving easy in his skin. It's nice to see.

Tommy rushes through a shower and the blow dryer, too many weeks of gigs to make getting ready for a club night any chore at all. He follows Adam's lead and keeps the make-up to a minimum. Liner, a brush of grey shadow, some shiny pink shit for his lips.

"Ready, rockstar?"

Adam looks up and his eyes go wide. "All out tonight, huh, Tommy?"

Shrugging, Tommy gives Adam a coy look and offers, "I can change..."

"The hell," Adam says. He wraps an arm around Tommy and, stealing a kiss, makes a total mess of the carefully applied gloss.

Tommy's seriously beginning to think that calling off Babylon and burrowing under the covers together is a better end for their date.

Except he's got a point to prove tonight. A statement to make. He tilts his head back and looks at Adam again.

He's got a fucking man to claim. In public. Where everyone, including twat 'verse, can see him.

* * *

Babylon is bumping when they arrive, the heavy thumpa-thumpa spilling out into the street. A line of pretty boys waiting to get into the club, all bunched together to ward off the chill, bouncing and dancing. They watch Adam and Tommy move around the wait and, with a motion from the bouncer, head straight into the dark jungle of Babylon.

Adam's hand is tight on the back of Tommy's neck, guiding him through the throng of hot, sweaty bodies. The weight of the stares they’re getting – the appreciation, the want, the jealousy – washes over Tommy. He's used to being on the bad end of those glares, used to having people being pissy because he's the straight boy that Adam is giving the attention to.

It's time to put that 'straight boy' shit to bed.

He stops right on the edge of the dance floor, the glow of the bar lighting the perfect blend of letting Tommy see Adam but too dark for anyone else to get more than a shadowed image of two people moving together. At the bar, Brian arches one eyebrow, issuing a silent dare from five feet away.

Taking the challenge, Tommy turns and pushes to his toes. "Kiss me."

"What? Here?" Adam's eyes are sparkling more now than they ever did on tour.

"Damn right," Tommy laughs. "I'm not fighting these fuckers off of you all night. Might as well crush their dreams now and get it over with."

Adam's eyes go dark and he drags Tommy closer, his lips crashing into Tommy's, nipping and biting and challenging Tommy to open up, to give way to Adam and let him plunder and take and taste. It's desperate and demanding, like he expects Tommy to pull away and play shy at last minute.

Adam never has been too bright. Not where Tommy is concerned. Tommy's pretty sure that's part of why it took them so damn long to get here, to this specific point in their relationship.

Tommy pushes into the kiss, lets Adam run with it and just sinks into Adam's demands, molds himself to Adam's front, trusts Adam to use those big, grabby hands of his to hold him up when his knees go out. Because if Adam keeps it up like this, they are damn well going to buckle pretty freaking soon.

He buries his head against Adam's chest when the kiss breaks, his breath coming out in heavy pants and his dick hard, pushing against the zip of his jeans and the meaty feel of Adam's thigh. He suddenly understands how something like a back-goddamn-room came to being.

Breathing under control, Tommy glances over his shoulder, and, catching Brian's smirk of approval and Justin's stupidly happy smile, he grins. As they walk the last few feet to the bar, Tommy steels himself for Brian's comments, figuring the fucker has earned the right to spew a few of his custom-made snarks. He'll just treat it like a reward or something. Cause the man had been spot on the money about who Tommy needed to be fucking.

It just took a picture for Tommy to figure it out.

* * ♥ * *

**Author's Note:**

> I extended the original auction offer to _masnds2_ because, well, it was for Adam and I'm a sucker for a pretty smile. I'm totally glad I did because this is the first time in a long damn time that Brian Kinney has lowered himself to talk to me. Man is a pain in the ass, I tell you. ;-) Title is from the Aristotle quote: The soul never thinks without a picture.
> 
> I owe you more, _masnds2_!


End file.
